


A Foothold in the Flood

by Verecunda



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Early Medieval Setting, Established Relationship, Loyalty Kink, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25615159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: "They may call you whatever they like — High King, Penn Teyrned, Dux Bellorum, and all the rest — but you’ll always be the little Wart underneath it all.”
Relationships: Kay/Arthur Pendragon (Arthurian)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	A Foothold in the Flood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snowshus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowshus/gifts).



The kings of the north had made a surly showing when they first came to make their surrender to Arthur. Their banners had thicketed the overgrown old parade-ground of Eburacum — the banners of the Gododdin and Rheged, of Elmet and Al Clud, of Manau and all the countless little chiefdoms that clung to the tails of their cloaks — stirring with only sulky reluctance in the light wind.

They had been surlier still when they came to sit about the council table and negotiate their new alliance. A grim procession, with dark, close-lipped Lot of the Gododdin and battle-scarred Urien Rheged at their head. Men more than twice his age, with many years of ruling and fighting behind them, and at first Arthur had been oppressed by an awareness of how he must seem in their eyes: a mere stripling of eighteen, without even the advantage of legitimate birth. Who was he to tell them how Britain should be governed? But he conquered the feeling and talked to them, talked until he thought his heart would burst, striving to make them see the need for unity and peace, to join their peoples and kingdoms and build something strong, something that would stand fast against the Saxon and the Jute, the Pict and the Scot, to make their island one where any person, regardless of tribe or station, could live in peace. 

They had listened to him attentively, and by slow degrees he had felt the mood of the room warming towards him; but the breakthrough had not come until he had been wrangling some minor point with Ceredic of Elmet, when Urien had suddenly brought one great fist down upon the table and cried, “Ha! Look at the set of that jaw. By God, the seed of the Pendragon runs true in this one, right enough.”

After that, it had all gone surprisingly quickly. Urien, professing his undying friendship and loyalty to his father, had offered the same to Arthur, and the others quickly followed his lead. Even Lot had come forward at last and said, very quietly, “My lord Arthur, it is one thing to pull a sword from a stone, but another thing indeed to wield it in leading a war-host to victory. From this day hence, I acknowledge you as my overlord.”

And before the day was out, the old Bishop of Eburacum was sent for, and before the doors of the church that had sprung up in place of the old legionary headquarters, on perhaps much the same spot as the blessed Constantine had been declared emperor more than two hundred years ago, Arthur son of Uther was confirmed High King of the Britons.

He supposed he should feel triumph, having fought so long and so hard for this moment; but though he was satisfied, he also felt suddenly tired.

Or perhaps tired was not quite the right word. Overawed, perhaps. Struck by a renewed sense of all the cares and responsibilities that were his inheritance, the great task that was his to fulfil. Suddenly all he wanted was quiet and rest, and so he waited until the first opportunity that courtesy would allow before taking his leave of the feasting.

His room lay in what he supposed had once been the chambers of some old city magistrate, at the end of an arcaded stone passage. The fine frescoes on the walls had dimmed with age and disuse, so that it was only possible now to glimpse the ghost of a horseman — Caesar? Alexander? — or the misty hint of a garden or a grove; but the amber light from the brazier caught the faded reds and saffrons, making them glow with new life. It had been a fine room in its day, and was still a comfortable one, and he was looking forward to throwing himself down upon the bed, which was piled high with furs and fine woollen coverlets. But he had barely unbuckled cloak and sword, before there came a knocking at the door — three great hammer-blows — and Kay’s voice booming from the other side:

“Arthur? Arthur, are you in there?”

So much for quiet. Arthur gave a little resigned smile, then called back, “I’m in here, Kay; come in.”

The door opened at once and there was Kay, stooping in under the lintel, and at once the little room seemed significantly smaller. His face was shining from the heat of the feasting-hall, cheeks flushed almost the same colour as his hair, and he still held a horn of ale in one hand. There was, too, a bruise about his left eye that had not been there before, as purple and shining as a plum. Seeing it, Arthur could not but laugh.

“Where did you come by that?”

“Eh?” Kay touched his free hand to the place. “Ah. One of Urien’s champions. He reckoned he could best me in a contest of fists. You can fancy what happened next.”

“Fancy? I can see very well for myself.”

“You ought to see _him_ ,” Kay retorted, with a toss of his chin. “I more than served him back.”

“Peace, Kay,” said Arthur, and reached out to touch him lightly on the shoulder. “I don’t doubt you did. But does it set the right sort of precedent, do you think, brawling over the ale with our new allies?”

Now Kay’s jaw clenched, and he drew himself up his full height, his whole expression going sour. “Well, if that is how you feel about it…” He half-turned, ready to stalk from the room, but Arthur, laughing, caught him by the sleeve.

“Oh, hush. You know very well I was joking.”

For a moment or two Kay still looked inclined to sulk, but then, with a shrug of his shoulders, threw it off. “Well,” he said, “if we are talking of precedents, what do you think _you’re_ about, creeping away from the feasting by yourself?”

“Hardly creeping,” replied Arthur. “I was feeling tired, that’s all.”

“Tired?” Kay looked at him aghast. “Hellfire and Hades, man, you are too young to be speaking in that wise. You sound like Father when the gout is on him. Come!” He caught Arthur roughly about the shoulders and pressed the ale-horn upon him. “Here. Celebrate. Is this not what you’ve laboured for these last two years?”

Arthur took the horn and swallowed a mouthful of the fierce barley-beer, glad of its reviving fire in the pit of his belly. “Aye,” he agreed, “it’s what I have laboured for. But don’t you see, Kay? Now that the alliance is made, the true labour is only just beginning. The work of uniting our kingdoms, joining as one, building something greater than before — all that still lies before us.”

“Well, surely that is even less reason for you to feel tired now. Christ!” Kay leaned back against the little writing-desk and wagged his head. “You’ve a gift for making things seem more complicated, Arthur.”

Arthur gave him a little lopsided smile. “Forgive me. I swear, it was not my intention to pour cold water on your good cheer, Kay. You’re right; it _is_ something great we have achieved today. It is worth celebrating.”

“Oh no,” said Kay, “it’s all gone sour now. Well, then.” He planted his hands on his knees and leaned forward, fixing him with a keen look. “What’s on your mind? Are you doubting the alliance will hold?”

“Doubt? Oh, no. Nothing like that. Most of the northern princes seem to follow Urien, and I am sure we may count on his loyalty. He seems… open.” A straightforward, plain-speaking warlord, with no time for intrigues and double-dealing. If he had a grievance, he would make it known aloud. “As for Lot…”

Kay grunted. “A snake in the grass, that one. I’d not trust him as far as I could piss.”

“Maybe not,” Arthur allowed, thinking of the Gododdin king’s still face and cool, watchful eyes. “But I think he sees that his interests will be best served by joining with us. He’s no fool.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I was thinking, too — his eldest son, the boy Gawain, he seems a likely sort of lad, and nearly of an age to bear his shield. I was thinking I would offer him a place among the warband. That ought to foster some good feeling, at least.”

“A good plan,” said Kay, with brusque approval. “Less muscle on him than I look for in the raw recruits, but I’m sure I can thrash him into shape.” Now he darted a keen look at Arthur’s face. “There’s more on your mind than just that, I think.”

Arthur gave an uneasy shrug. Oh yes, there was far more than just that, but they were things hard to find words for. The weight of more cares than ever upon his shoulders, cares that were his alone to bear.

He was assailed by a piercing sense of desolation, of loneliness — the loneliness of the mountaintop above the cloud-line, cut off from the rest of the world. It was a feeling that had been with him, in some form or another, all through the last two years; but tonight it had taken him as sharply as it had done only once before. He thought of that moment now: holding Excalibur in his hands, hard iron sliding from living rock as if it were butter; turning, blinking and bewildered, to see rank upon rank of the great lords of Britain kneeling before him. At that, all his wonder had turned to a sort of terror. The terror of knowing that something had just been done that could never be undone and that his whole life had changed forever, as a great storm or earthquake might throw a river off its course and onto a new one. His life was now forever set upon its new course, and the current was racing, roaring, carrying him away before he could gain a foothold…

In the end, all he could say was, “So much has happened. So much, in so short a time.”

Now something changed in Kay’s face. His hard features sobered, softened, and he gave a great, gusting sigh. “Aye. It has, hasn’t it?” And he looked up with a low smile.

Looking back at him, Arthur found himself remembering something else. How the first to kneel before him had been Ector his foster-father and Kay. Then, when the first wonder of the thing had passed and the inevitable uproar began, how the two of them had never left his side, but had kept close to him, one on each side. There had been something in that closeness, as if they feared he might vanish if they left him alone for so much as a heartbeat. He thought he sensed something of that same memory behind Kay’s smile now.

All at once, Kay knocked back what was left of his beer, set the empty horn down on the desk behind them, and put out one hand. “Come here.”

With a great rush of gratitude, swift and sparkling as a mountain stream, Arthur moved forward, and was at once enfolded in a great, bone-bruising hug. He released a great sigh — partly from having the breath squeezed out of him, mostly from relief — and pressed in close against Kay’s wide chest, wrapping his arms tight about him in kind and leaning his brow against his shoulder. Kay’s familiar solidity bore in upon him, and the great warmth of his body reached out to envelop him.

Some things, at least, stayed the same.

“High King this, High King that,” rumbled Kay, his chin resting on Arthur’s head. “Well, they may call you whatever they like — High King, Penn Teyrned, Dux Bellorum, and all the rest — but you’ll always be the little Wart underneath it all.”

He grimaced into Kay’s shoulder. “I thought I might have outgrown that title, at least.”

“Outgrown — _you_? Not a chance. I could still pick you up and carry you about with one hand, if I had a mind to.”

“Could you, now?” said Arthur, smiling.

Kay flashed him a fierce, narrow glance — the look he always wore when he felt himself challenged — then, in the next instant, the floor disappeared beneath Arthur’s feet and his belly swooped within him as he was lifted clear and hefted over Kay’s shoulder like a sack of grain. Caught between indignation and laughter, he thrashed and kicked, but he had never been a match for Kay’s greater size and strength, and so all his efforts were in vain.

“Let go! Let go, damn you…”

With a low growl of amusement, Kay crossed the few paces to the bed in one stride and tossed him down upon it, but with such force that they both went down, landing so heavily that the ropes beneath the mattress let up a great querulous groan. For a long moment they lay there, winded, among the furs; then they caught each other’s eye and dissolved at once into laughter: stupid, boyish, and unabashed.

Even when the laughter subsided, Arthur found himself grinning, feeling lighter than he had for a long time. It seemed a lifetime since he had laughed so openly. He looked up, still wearing a rather foolish smile, and Kay looked back, one brow quirked as if daring him to complain.

“Feeling better?”

Arthur nodded, enjoying the simple pleasure of their closeness. Even in the new course of his life, Kay was a great rock in the middle of the flood: steadfast, constant, obstinate against change; a steady foothold amid the racing current. A great, helpless bloom of fondness welled up in his heart, and he leaned up to brush a quick kiss against Kay’s lips. It lasted scarcely as long as a heartbeat, but even as he drew back, he saw that Kay’s eyes had already gone warm and dark.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” he murmured.

“Yes,” Arthur agreed. “A long time.”

“Well, we ought to do something about that.” So saying, he lowered his head to press a kiss against Arthur’s neck; and Arthur sighed and pulled him into his arms.

It was indeed a long time since they had been together like this, though there had been a time — not so very long ago, really — when they had done it often enough. No uncommon thing among boys training for the war-trail together, sharing spears and campfires and the fierce terror-elation of a first battle. And for two boys such as they, who had been used to sharing the same bedplace from their very youngest days, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. They had been each other’s first, from the time they first felt the sap rising hot within them, and had spent many nights learning what to do, uncertain fumblings growing slowly in confidence and skill.

Now they fell easily into their old rhythms, bodies fitting together as easily as the parts of a brooch, hands and mouths seeking, almost without the need for thought, the places that kindled the heat between them. There were little differences, too: scars of sword and spear that had not been there before, and Arthur’s fingers traced a flowing tattoo in the Pictish style that now wound around Kay’s forearm, something done about the campfire on some long, wearisome night watch. But everything that mattered was the same, and by and by Kay moved over him in the old way, pressing Arthurr back into the furs, his wide shoulders shutting out the rest of the world for a time, leaving him pleasantly pinned down, with nothing more to do just now than simply to feel, and enjoy.

Slowly, Kay’s mouth moved from his own, and as Arthur tilted his head up, moved over the point of his chin to the underside of his jaw, following the arch of his throat and skimming over his chest: down and ever downwards. His weight moved and shifted against Arthur’s body, so that the pressure upon him was always changing, little unpredictable thrills of pleasure shivering through him wherever they touched.

Then, upon reaching his belt, Kay checked, suddenly, and Arthur could not help but utter a little thwarted groan, his hips rising sharply up to chase the retreating warmth. Seeing this, Kay gave a low chuckle, but decided to be kind for once. Deftly unbuckling his belt, he pulled Arthur’s tunic aside and eased his trousers over his hips, before lowering his head to take Arthur deep into his mouth.

“Oh...”

In that first moment of enveloping heat, Arthur’s breath escaped him on a low moan, which he quickly bit down upon, hands scrabbling to find purchase upon Kay’s shoulders. Lying as he was, he could not see Kay’s face, but he could feel his satisfaction as surely as a cloak about his shoulders. Kay remained still a moment or two more, just letting Arthur settle into the sensation of the thing, before shaping his mouth firmly about him and drawing him further in.

With every movement of Kay’s mouth, Arthur felt the desire spread throughout him, as slow and sweet as honey: from the pit of his belly outward, until his toes curled and his fingers tangled in Kay’s hair, his breath coming in gasps and sighs. That was something else they had learned in those early days, the art of keeping quiet, lest they be discovered and earn themselves a birching from Kay’s father. But as Kay drove him towards the height of his pleasure, it became harder and harder still to restrain himself; and he found himself rolling his hips to meet his mouth, as the sounds escaping him became freer.

“Kay. Oh, _Kay_ …”

In response, Kay gave a deep rumble of pleasure, which Arthur felt shudder through his own body. Probably there were few among the warband who would ever guess that Kay, with his hasty temper and fiery hair, should find enjoyment in such slow and leisurely loving as this. He took his time, apparently heedless of the growing urgency of Arthur’s desire, content to draw him on and on…

Then, unexpectedly, he swept his tongue along the base of Arthur’s length, firm against the vein — and there was the end. Arthur’s body arched from the bed as his pleasure peaked, bent almost double as light burst behind his eyes; and he felt the hot rush as he spent, his breath leaving him in one long, harsh, broken gasp. But even then, Kay held him through it, big hands pressing down on his hips, swallowing him down before wiping his mouth and grinning up at him with an expression of very smug satisfaction.

“Come here,” said Arthur weakly, reaching out a hand for him. 

He complied at once, shuffling up the length of the bed to join him once more, curling his body about Arthur’s own and holding him as the last echoes of his desire faded. Arthur wrapped an arm about him and they lay in contended silence for some time, until the pleasant daze had faded and Arthur felt his senses return to him.

As he did, moving one leg across Kay’s, he felt the hard bulge that indicated where Kay himself was clearly in need of relief. Never one to shy from a task that needed doing, he drew himself up and edged backward, sitting astride Kay’s legs as he began to work at his belt.

“You needn’t bother yourself so soon,” he murmured, eyes half-closed in his comfort, like some sort of giant cat.

“And what sort of High King will I make,” Arthur returned, “if I choose to lie about basking in my own pleasure while you stand in need of succour?”

Kay gave another thunder-rumble of laughter. “Then this is how you mean to begin your great reign of justice for all? By bringing me off?”

Arthur, having now disposed of the belt, paused just long enough to flicker a grin. “Well, it is as good a place to start as any.”

**Author's Note:**

> On historical accuracy (or lack thereof): This fic I imagine to be set at sometime in the early 500s, rather too early for the real Urien Rheged. But as he is one of those shadowy historical figures who ended up being wound into the Arthur mythos because of reasons, I suppose we can forgive him a bit of time-travelling. Maybe Merlin had a hand in it. ;)
> 
> "Wart" as Arthur's childhood nickname is of course from TH White.


End file.
